FicWad

Hannah burst through the front door, and found Andy and Pete in the living room. She was out of breath, having run all the way home.
"Pete...Andy...hurry, hurry, we have to get to the grave...yard, Patrick broke his arm...it's raining-"
"Hannah, slow down- what?" Andy exclaimed.
"I'll explain later, now hurry!! Andy, we need to take your car, we have to get Patrick to the hospital!"
Pete and Andy jumped up and threw on their jackets, and the three of them rushed outside to Andy's blue Mazda. As Andy drove, windshield wipers swinging wildly, Hannah explained the situation through hysteric tears. Pete cuddled her, rocking her gently back and forth.
"Shit," Pete breathed, "How do we get him over the fence?"
"I don't know," sobbed Hannah, "This is all my fault, it always is, I always hurt the people I love, it's-"
"Sssh," Pete raised a finger to her soft lips, "It isn't your fault."
Andy glanced at them in the review mirror.
"Uh...why were you guys trying to get into the private graveyard?"
Hannah blushed, her cheeks reddening even more under the tear stains.
"I...well, Patrick...y'see, we were, ah..."
Hannah was embarrassed; how was she supposed to explain that she liked the mausoleum on top of the hill? Patrick had understood. Patrick was quiet and day dreamy; Andy seemed logical and serious. Hannah did not finish explaining, and neither Andy nor Pete asked again, though Hannah watched them exchange confused glances in the review mirror.

Patrick sighed with relief as he watched Andy's blue Mazda pull up to the gate. Pete, Andy and Hannah all crawled out; Patrickwas relieved not to see Mark. Patrick stood up, wincing in pain. Pete ran to the bars, his face falling.
"Shit, Trick, I dunno how to get you out..."
Andy stepped up and sighed.
"We'll have to crawl over and help him up over the fence. This is going to hurt, Patrick, I'm sorry. It's just your left arm?"
Patrick nodded, embarrassed to be in such a nuisance. Pete and Andy climbed the slippery iron bars slowly, not at all with the skillful grace that Hannah climbed with. The helped Patrick climb in an awkward position, each with an arm around his shoulders while all three of them climbed with one arm. If any of them slipped, the three of them were screwed. Hannah watched the scene through her fingers and a curtain of drenched blonde hair, black roots glimmering in the streetlights that flickered to life as the sky grew darker.

Patrick was trying hard not to cry by the time his sopping wet, mud stained Vans met the pavement on the other side of the fence. His wrist was searing with white-hot pain, sending jolts up and down his entire left arm. And, to top things off, he was embarrassed that he had to rely on his two older, stronger friends for help. Once they were in the car, no one spoke. Andy was concentrating on the slippery road. Pete and Hannah were cuddling, though Hannah held Patrick's right hand loosely in hers. Patrick was shivering uncontrollably, unable to decide if it was because of his wet clothes or Hannah's soft touch.

The four returned home late that night, Patrick's left wrist in a cast; it was broken. Go figure. Two whole weeks of the damn thing. Patrick tried to hide himself casually behind Hannah, Pete and Andy; he was dreading the scene of pity and attention that he knew would surely follow. But Mark, Joe and Mackena all jumped up from the couch as soon the group trudged through the front door, looking alarmed.
"Where the hell- Patrick, what happened?!" Joe cried.
Mackena shrieked a little and hugged Patrick, carefully minding his arm. Hannah and Patrick nervously explained, blushing and avoiding each other's eyes. Mackena and Joe looked shaken, but Mark stood levelly, his arms folded.
"Why the hell were you trying to trespass onto private property?" he asked coolly.
Patrick glanced at Hannah. She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head ever so slightly, undetectably. Patrick felt the coldness of her locket on his skin. He looked down at his bare feet; his Vans had to be taken off to wash.
"I wanted to see my...my aunt's grave." He lied lamely. But it did the trick for everyone, except Pete; he glanced suspiciously from Hannah to Patrick, then announced that they should all have ice cream in an attempt to lighten the gloomy mood.

---

Guilt was spilling from all four corners of the room, every crack in the wall, every loose floorboard, flooding in and closing in around Hannah. She sat on the edge of her bed, in the dark. Her insides were squirming. It's my fault. All my fault. She hugged her arms around her chest, feeling sick. Patrick was upstairs, in bed and in pain. And it was all her fault. She squirmed uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing her legs several times. She glanced towards the door; Pete was upstairs still with Mark. No/. She told herself. But she wanted it. She needed it. Her mind and body were raging a silent war; her legs were carrying her towards the door but her mind was screaming /Stop!

Hannah knocked on the door uncertainly, her knuckles chipping off even more paint. It fluttered to the ground silently. Then, she heard footsteps from behind the withered wood; the door creaked open, and Jack glared evilly at her.
"You always come crawling back, don't you?"
Hannah grinned sheepishly.
"I need some coke."
Jack glared at her. Hannah was terrified of him; but she couldn't let it show through. She's seen the guns he kept in black boxes under his bed. She was no stranger to his bed. She pulled herself up a little taller.
"Stupid bitch, always comes crawling back..." Jack muttered grudgingly, but he stepped aside to let Hannah enter. She flashed him a confident smile;
"You know you love me."
Jack closed the door, and Hannah followed him into the dark house. He led her to the living room, where a single lamp was lit. It was freezing.
"I got my heat cut again." He explained.
Hannah shivered and looked around at the familiar furniture; or lack thereof. A threadbare sofa and a chipped coffee table. Spread out on the table were twenty or so bags of white powder.
"You're in luck. I just got some new stuff in, and I can use the money."
Hannah pulled several bills out of her pocket and handed them to Jack vaguely, but she practically lunged for the two bags she had paid for.
"Down, girl." Jack sneered.
"Gimme a dollar bill." She ordered.
Jack got that look in his eye, and looked her up and down. He smiled.
"That's your price these days?" he said slyly.
Hannah scowled.
"I've got a boyfriend, jackass."
Jack sighed as he fished a bill out of his pocket.
"Call me when he discovers your dirty little habit."
Hannah snatched the bill away from him angrily.
"He already knows."
Jack shrugged.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Hannah."
And you're my worst nightmare, she thought as she knelt down in front of the coffee table, bill and cocaine in hand.

Hannah snuck back in through the basement entrance, still feeling high. She tripped over some shoes and giggled. It was really late; Pete would be in bed. Hannah held her breath as she opened the bedroom door; Pete was asleep. She sighed with relief and tiptoed across the room, removing her jeans and unlacing her Converse. She crawled into bed in her tee-shirt and underwear, snuggling under the covers.
"Where were you." Pete sighed, not opening his eyes.
Hannah jumped; she hadn't expected him to be awake.
"I, uh..."
Pete rolled over, and propped himself up on his elbow.
"Tell me the truth."
Hannah could not bear to look into his eyes.
"I was getting coke." She whispered.
Pete gasped; but it was fake. Hannah scowled and looked up at him.
"I'm not a fucking retard, I heard Mark telling you about my 'problem'"
Pete sighed.
"Hannah, look. I like you. I like you a lot. I think I love you. But these drugs...they are ruining your life, you know that?"
Pete took her in his arms, and Hannah did not respond.
"Love you, too." She mumbled, not sure if she meant it.